Like Ruth, I am mourning Danny in my own way, saddened at the loss of such a fine young man and field officer. He is not the first, of course, but it never gets any easier, and over the last year I had felt a certain kinship with him, as I too navigated the treacherous shoals of falling in love with a colleague. The funeral will help, I tell myself, it will give everyone an opportunity to pay their respects and farewell him; at times like these, even the most hardened and agnostic officers seem to find a measure of solace in the familiar rituals and old hymns. We are all only human, after all…even those of us who make life and death decisions every day; even Harry Pearce, who has buried more colleagues than the rest of Section D put together.
Blessedly, Colin and I have managed to have a couple of reflective conversations since Danny's death, as we both try to make sense of the events leading up to that hideous moment. Colin had known Danny almost better than me, as the two of them would sometimes go out drinking together on a Friday night, when I had to get home to Mother, and he has been severely shaken by the sudden turn that a routine operation took, culminating in that fatal shot. Determined not to lose track of field staff ever again, he has been channelling his anger and sadness into some extremely creative micro-tech: tiny microphones and tracking devices which can be sewn undetectably between layers of fabric or disguised as a tiny button or press-stud. Some of the tech, like the micro-processor, has been developed from the bug I found on the remote control at Havensworth; during the long nights I have put in on the Grid lately, I have been occupying my few free moments by dismantling and studying it.
I discovered that it was an audio recording device, and not the video transmitting unit I had feared it could be, to my enormous relief. Once I had erased the faint, but blush-worthy sounds of Ruth and me against the hotel room door from the inbuilt memory chip, and painstakingly reassembled it, I had passed the device on to Colin for further investigation. He thinks the components are of Taiwanese manufacture – they are world leaders in microprocessors and miniaturised technology – but as to who might have planted it, he finds no more trace than me. "It's not Vauxhall's usual style…could be the Americans, I suppose, but where did you say you found it?" I mumbled something about having been sent to clean house at Havensworth after the ball, and Colin shook his head in bafflement. "It doesn't make sense – most of the bugs we find after that kind of event are either ours or Six's. I suppose it could be something that a GCHQ bod dreamt up, and thought they'd test in the field..." I had given him a one-sided shrug and turned back to my screens, striving for nonchalance, even as a cold feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. GCHQ...Ruth's old stamping ground…
Images from that night flashed past my mind's eye: Ruth, struggling with Mace…the Tessina in her hand as she sat in the moonlight...the tiny bug on the remote control in our room...too many anomalies for mere coincidence, but what's the connection? Before I could give these thoughts my full attention, Zaf put his head round the door, summoning us to yet another briefing, but I have been mulling over them ever since. All I can do is trust her, and hope that one day she will be able to tell me what was really going on at Toad Hall.
The morning of Danny's funeral dawns bright and clear, a perfect summer's day, in stark contrast to the sadness of the occasion. As it happens, I have arranged for Mother to visit her sister in Bournemouth for a month, as is her custom at this time of year, when London is at its stickiest and most infested with tourists, and Danny's funeral now coincides with the day agreed upon weeks ago for travelling to the old Victorian resort town. I don't like to disappoint Mother, and besides, if I am painfully honest, I am rather looking forward to my annual break, when I am free to do exactly as I please. Until recently, about the most exciting thing I could think of was to attend an occasional evening choral recital at King's College, or take a weekend trip to the Scottish Highlands for some solitary rambling – but now that Ruth is in my life, the possibilities which present themselves are far more enticing…
Certainly, it is not always easy to cohabit with one's parent, but I made my father a promise, in the last, pain-wracked weeks of his life, to look after Mother, and I intend to honour it. So I drive her down myself as planned, leaving at dawn's crack, before returning for the funeral service. I only just have time to go home and change – I hadn't wanted to arouse suspicion by wearing my good suit to drive to Bournemouth – before heading over to the church near Camden.
I arrive at the same time as Colin, and we walk into the cool stone interior together, before I spot Ruth, who is sitting by herself in a pew at the front, and hesitate; should I sit with my friend, or go to her? Colin rolls his eyes in wry amusement (or annoyance, I'm not sure which), and sits down in the first pew he comes to, as I continue on down the aisle towards Ruth,unable to help myself. Just as I slide into the row next to her, and before she can acknowledge me, Harry arrives on the other side, having worked his way through the small gathering of officers and paid his respects to Danny's mother.
At any other time, I would be full of apprehension and anxiety, wondering what Harry was up to, but today I can see it plainly: in his stilted, clumsy way, he is trying his best to be there for Ruth, even as he draws strength from her presence. I can almost feel the energy draining from her as she sits perfectly still, eyes down. I would like to take her hand reassuringly, or put a protective arm around her, but this is hardly the place or time to attract attention or speculation on the nature of our relationship, not with Harry sitting next to her, and an almost unbearable tension crackling in the air between all three of us: two protons, drawn irresistibly towards the same neutron. The nuclear physics of the human heart, it would seem, is a very inexact science…
Silently, we wait in the sombre atmosphere, contemplating a photograph of Danny, taken before he joined the Service. I blink back moisture as I think of the terrible loss for his mother, his family, his friends…and us, his comrades in arms. Ruth's stillness terrifies me; she isn't behind a wall of glass today, she is completely encased in it, like a figure frozen in the deep ice of a glacier. Her sadness is almost palpable, and so is her disproportionate sense of guilt. She doesn't look in the direction of Danny's family, seated across the aisle from us; she doesn't look to the left or right as Harry takes a seat; instead she raises her head, fixes her gaze on a point midway between the altar and infinity, and stares straight at it. She could be a thousand miles away; only the tears that slowly slide down her cheeks, unheeded, tell me that the woman I love is present, somewhere inside that unnaturally motionless form. I move a couple of inches closer, wanting to somehow hold or comfort her, even though Harry is right there, a looming presence which cannot be ignored; she flinches away and tucks both hands in her lap, drawing even further inwards. The message could not be clearer: don't come any nearer. I feel as if my own heart is breaking, as I witness her relentless self-reproach. Oh, Ruth, why didn't you believe me when I told you this was not your fault? Again, I feel that there is something more at stake here, something I can sense, but not quite see; something that Ruth has carried with her for a very long time.
Before I can reflect any further, the congregation rises for the opening hymn, and with the force of long habit, I try to settle into the right frame of mind for church, just as the lady vicar (I wonder what Father would have made of that?) begins proceedings. As we sing, Ruth's normally low, clear alto is barely audible, and I glance at her worriedly as she stands between Harry and me. For an instant I think Harry is moving closer to her… with an enormous effort of will, I turn my attention back to the service.
The vicar indicates that we should sit, inviting us to join in a prayer for Danny, and a reverent hush falls across us all; I bow my head, hands clasped together as my father taught me, and address myself to the Almighty as the vicar intones the old, familiar words. Some days, I feel that I am still only just on speaking terms with God, but in that moment as I turn my attention inwards, I sense that a healing is beginning for us all; the healing which comes from sharing the burden with others who understand the nature of one's loss, and from giving oneself permission to grieve, even in the formal setting of a funeral service. I have seen the desperation and dread with which Ruth has been waiting for this day, and I understand how important it is for her to say goodbye properly. Her eyes brim with tears, and she has wrapped her arms protectively about herself as she sits, lost in her own thoughts.
Just as the vicar's initial prayer is drawing to a close, the altar candle inexplicably goes out…
A second later, a concussive shockwave passes through the cool, heavy air of the church, which could only have been produced by a major detonation close by, and Harry's head snaps up from his attitude of prayer, instantly on the alert, the veteran survivor of several IRA bombings sniffing for the acrid reek of sweet explosives. And then, the red flash comes, an obscene electronic intrusion which each of us hastily silences even as Danny's family glares and we slip, shamefacedly, from our seats.
Oh, no, not now, no now of all times, I think, as we troop out of the church and into the afternoon light, and the wail of sirens approaching rends the air…Camden Lock Market is not far from us, and it will be filled with shoppers on a sunny Friday afternoon…Oh, dear God… Harry, who is nearly out of the churchyard, flanked by Adam and Zaf, suddenly stops and looks around, instinctively seeking Ruth. When he realises that she is not with us, he chooses to go himself to fetch her out of Danny's funeral; and as he does so, I forgive him for how he has driven her in the last week, and for the anxiety I have felt about their developing closeness, for he is doing something now which none of the rest of us would dare. He could have so easily ordered me, or Adam, back to get her; but recognising the enormity of the betrayal he is about to inflict on Ruth, Harry is doing his own dirty work. This is why Harry Pearce, and nobody else, is the head of Section D, I remind myself, even as my worry about how this is going to affect Ruth increases exponentially.
When Harry finally reappears with Ruth in tow, all my fears are realised as I watch her approaching. She looks like a sleeper caught between a nightmare and an unbearable waking reality. Her eyes are glassy, her face is pale, and from the way that she is pulling her coat closed around her, I deduce that she must be cold with shock. There is nothing I can do; Harry leads her towards the street as his car and driver appears, and the rest of us disperse to our own vehicles, to make all haste to Thames House, still trying to take in the unbelievable news: London is under attack. Preliminary intel is that a bomb has ripped through the heart of one of the busiest markets in the country, reportedly causing major loss of life, and our worst fears are realised, all in the space of a few fateful seconds…
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world;
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere,
The ceremony of innocence is drowned…
WB Yeats, The Second Coming
A/N: The TV series doesn't give a clear timeframe for when Danny's funeral takes place (i.e. how long after his death it occurs). Harry's Diary says that Danny dies on 4 July, and first makes reference to the Shining Dawn attacks at the very end of August, which take place on the day of Danny's funeral. Six or seven weeks seems a very long time to postpone his funeral without explanation, so I have decided to go with the idea of the funeral taking place about a week or so after his death, because, after all, I can! - Airgead ;)